


Heat

by oceaxe



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, Minor Arthur/Cobb
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-24
Updated: 2018-10-12
Packaged: 2019-07-16 09:16:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16083086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceaxe/pseuds/oceaxe
Summary: When Arthur collapses on the job, Eames finds himself compelled to figure out what the hell is going on.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Terebi_me and Deinvati for the beta/cheer-reading! You guys are the best!

“Is this really necessary?” Arthur says, clipped and frowning. He’s flipping through Eames’ handwritten timeline for reconnaissance. “I sent you the footage from the mark’s wedding. That should be more than sufficient for prepping the forge.” 

Eames steps back, a little performatively. “I thought you liked thorough research,” he murmurs, hands spread in deference. 

“Yeah, an appropriate amount of research, which has already been done by _me_ , so let’s just get on with it,” Arthur raps out, turning away from Eames and stalking to the other side of the cavernous office. 

Eames has no idea why Arthur has him sequestered over here near the boiler room, as everyone else has their desks and tables more or less clustered near the kitchenette and loo. But when he attempted to relocate closer to the rest of the team, Arthur had given him a baleful glare that had quelled him entirely. 

It was really too bad, Eames thought to himself, sitting back in his second-hand, third-rate Herman Miller knock-off. He’d thought he had been hitting it off with Arthur on that last job. Apparently not.

A few days later, after treatment of a similar sort, Eames has had it. 

“What the fuck?” he bursts out, unable to contain himself after Arthur has again told him that his forge is ‘good enough.’ “When has anything ever been _good enough_ for you, I ask? In Dublin, you had me take three separate posts to make sure that—” He breaks off as Arthur is storming over to him. The point man looks a bit terrifying.

“I told you we were speeding up the timeline. Your forge is _fine._ ”

“You’re taking risks and I don’t know why. This is not—”

“It’s fine.”

They stare each other down for a long moment. Eames’ heartbeat speeds up and he feels himself in danger of starting something that might get him get kicked off the job. The loss of the five-figure payout will hurt, but not more than them getting pulled up by Interpol.

“There’s no need to rush,” he says mildly, acknowledging internally that he needs Arthur’s good graces even more than he needs the currency in his account.

Arthur glares at him, his eyebrows beetling down in a caricature of displeasure. 

“I am the point man, Mr. Eames. I say what the timeline is.”

“Are you double-booked? Is that what’s going on?” It’s the only thing that makes sense. The mark is here on holiday until the end of the month, and there’s no interference from family or associates. They have their pick of dates. 

Arthur bristles dangerously, and all of Eames’ senses go on high alert.

“I have something—coming up,” he says, voice oddly subdued given his body language, which is screaming _fight-or-flight._

Eames raises an eyebrow at him; the weakness of the reply provides an opening he can’t resist, in spite of the energy crackling around Arthur like lightning. 

“It’s not very professional, is it?” he asks, mouth pulling to the side wryly as he turns away, unable to meet Arthur’s hot gaze with equanimity any longer. “To overlap jobs. I understand, money may be tight, I have the same—”

He’s stopped by Arthur pushing him into the table he’s been propped against. 

“I am not short on money, Eames. I’m short on _time_. Stop pushing me.” Arthur is pressed all along his body. In other circumstances, this position is one that Eames would gratefully and enthusiastically encourage. 

“I rather think you’re the one doing the pushing, darling,” he says softly, and Arthur inhales abruptly through his nose, his eyes widening as he seems to finally notice what he’s doing.

The next moment he’s straightening, stepping away—no, swooning away. He’s collapsed on the ground, pale and tragic, eyes closed against the harsh fluorescents. Eames stoops over him, checking his pulse, his own pulse racing like mad. 

Arthur’s heartbeat is frantic, unsteady. A quick glance around the room shows that it’s empty; the whole team is AWOL, even Cobb. “God damn it, Dom,” Eames says as he squats to get his arms under Arthur’s limp form. When he’s got him safely on a lounge chair, he goes out to the vestibule to locate someone, anyone, who might know what hotel Arthur’s staying at. 

No one is there, or out on the street. Eames has his phone to his ear, about to leave a message for Cobb on his burner, as he walks back into the space. Arthur’s gone.

Eames lets the phone drop, sits down on the vacant lounge chair, still warm from Arthur’s body. He mulls over how very, very odd Arthur’s behavior has been. 

There’s been animosity since the start of the job, and there’s no reason for it. Eames has been unfailingly polite, almost solicitous. If he’s honest with himself, the solicitousness comes from the dawning realization of the strength of his attraction to Arthur. Looking back at the last few weeks, Eames can see that some of his actions have the distinct aura of courting. 

Fetching coffee. Pulling out chairs. Holding doors. Most of which have been met with disdain.

He grimaces. Perhaps there is an explanation after all. 

Nevertheless, fainting on the job is not something to be brushed aside. Arthur Levine, swooning away in a dead faint from a minor confrontation. Something is off; something is very, very wrong. He’s picking up the cell again to ring Cobb, when Cobb and the chemist walk in with paper bags of take-out.

“Where’s Arthur?” Cobb asks. 

“I don’t fucking know,” Eames barks. That’s not good. His emotions have outstripped his iron control, and when did that happen? “He fainted out of nowhere, and no one was about. I went looking for you but you’d all fucked off, then I come back and he’s disappeared into thin air! What’s going on with him, Cobb? He’s not himself. Is he ill?”

Mehta walks back to the lab set-up, pointedly ignoring Eames’ histrionics. They’ve always been a bit above-it-all. Cobb watches them cross the room, then takes a breath as if to speak. He pauses, looking shifty but not surprised. Not in the least. Eames raises his eyebrows expectantly.

“He’s not… he’ll be fine,” Cobb says finally. 

“Is he ill?” Eames repeats, a pit opening up in his gut. 

“Not exactly. He’ll be _fine_ , Eames. It’s nothing for you to concern yourself with.”

“Well, someone ought to be concerned! He was pale a sheet. It looks like you don’t give a flying fuck, so I need to know where his hotel is.”

Cobb blanches, looking hardly any better than Arthur had. What the _fuck_ was going on? Could it be drugs? Could Arthur be in withdrawal? Eames shakes his head against the thought, although it seems like an obvious candidate.

“Either you’re going to his hotel or I am, Cobb. He’s not well.”

“You don’t know where his hotel is,” Cobb says blandly. 

“That had better change, fast,” Eames growls, stepping into Cobb’s space. Cobb steps back, mutters, “Fine, have it your way. Novotel, Jaffe Road. Room 511.” 

Eames thinks he hears Cobb say, “Better you than me,” but he’s in too much a hurry to wonder what that could mean.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur meets Eames in Macau, July 2009
> 
> This chapter takes place a few years prior to the first chapter.

Early July, 2009  
Macau

 

Arthur slid the picc line out of his vein, feeling woozier than normal. The chemist had warned them of this likelihood, so he didn’t think too much of it. He compensated by taking his time getting to his feet before he reached for Dom’s arm. Dom blinked up at him as he came up out of the dreamscape. The mark still lay unconscious, as there were 5 minutes left on the timer. 

“Feel okay?” Dom said while he stashed the notes he’d made in the minute after waking. Arthur was still packing up the PASIV. It was taking longer than usual for some reason, and Dom walked over to help him reel in the lines. 

“I feel… I’m fine,” Arthur said. He felt shitty, off-balance and somehow empty inside, but he didn’t want to cause Dom any worry. Not only had they’d had a stunningly difficult time with this job, but Mal was struggling with postpartum depression and being away from her and the kids was killing Dom. He was up at all hours of the night, strategizing with her mother, asking advice of her father, researching solutions on the internet.

They went their separate ways out of the complex, Dom to take a series of buses that would eventually lead him to the gambling district, Arthur to a taxi which he would take to a secure location near the airport to stash the PASIV, and then meet Dom at City of Dreams in Cotai. 

As he arrived at the casino after enduring the harrowing rush hour traffic, Arthur grimaced at the condition of his suit. He was sweaty and rumpled, his brain slightly foggy--not the condition in which he wanted to meet a potential new colleague. But Dom had insisted that they meet Eames in person; he said he needed Arthur’s read on him, whether he could be trusted.

The man’s CV spoke for itself. In fact, it was almost too good; he fit their exact needs, to the smallest specification. As if he’d fed them precisely what they wanted to hear. But all his sources checked out. If he’d faked anything, he’d done a damned good job. Arthur was impressed. 

He was not impressed by the man’s choice of meeting places. City of Dreams. Speaking of being too ‘on the nose.’ Well, it was the second largest casino in Macau, so it provided good cover for white tourists. He sighted Dom’s blond head by the fan tan tables and walked over to him, noting the man seated next to him, his profile a sweep of forehead, long slope of nose and firm jaw line. In between the nose and the chin were the most lush lips Arthur’d ever seen on a man, pursed around a toothpick. His heartbeat sped up. 

He’d met this man before. 

“Arthur,” Dom said, “This is Eames.”

Eames half-raised himself out of his club chair and held out his hand, the crystal of his chunky watch catching the light and flashing in Arthur’s eye. “Pleasure,” he said, the mouth forming a slight smile. Arthur blinked and opened his mouth. “Likewise,” he said, a flush running up the back of his neck. Was he getting sick? He needed to have a word with the chemist. 

The conversation flowed over him for a moment while he took a seat and a deep breath. When he focused in again, it was to find Eames’ eyes trained on him, keen and assessing. 

“Have we met before?” 

This was neither the time nor the place, so Arthur shook his head minutely and said, “Not likely.” He seemed to accept this and move on, playing with a white fan tan button, casually making it disappear and reappear while telling Dom about the job he’d just finished for Avery’s team. 

“Blighter thought I’d cut and run, I reckon, but I'm not the type,” he said, flashing Arthur a glimpse of his crooked teeth. “I nailed that forge to the floor and we all went home with our pockets heavy.” 

This aligns with what Arthur’d heard of that situation. The forge target had died two days before the run, while he’d been tailing her for research. Instead of jumping ship, Eames had gone in as her ghost and it had been spectacularly successful. Resourceful wasn’t even the word for it. Ingenious, maybe. Brilliant. Gutsy as hell.

Dom looked impressed, and more importantly, happier than he’d looked in months. They all finish their drinks, the fact that Eames was invited to join the team in December obvious enough that it didn’t need to be spoken aloud. Figures and dates were tossed around and calendared in various ways (Arthur in his Moleskin, Dom in his phone, Eames evidently in his mind). Eames gave Arthur a lingering glance as they left his table, then turned his attention back to the buttons and cards. 

Back in Chicago, Arthur continued to feel crappy, which pissed him off. His downtime was sacred to him, not to be wasted on some mystery ailment. Unfortunately, he couldn’t seem to shake the low-grade fever that came and went, relenting and then returning over the following weeks. He was out at a bar one Friday night, having felt better for several days in a row, when it came back again, settling on him with savage force.

The room swam and he found himself pressed against the man who’d been flirting with him, a decent-looking guy with extremely broad shoulders and ugly tats. The fever seemed to both intensify and recede as their mouths met and the guy’s hands ran possessively over Arthur’s ass and lower back. 

Arthur didn’t quite follow how he’d ended up at the guy’s place, and he didn’t remember consenting to fucking both him and his live-in boyfriend, but it felt necessary, somehow. Not to mention how amazing it felt to be stuffed with cock on both ends for hours at a time. He stayed the whole weekend and felt much better afterwards, physically speaking. 

Mentally speaking, he wrote the whole thing off, refused to think about it. He’d never been like that before and he was certain he never would be again. He tossed their phone number in the trash as it began to dawn on him that he might have been roofied. A chill feeling washed over him at the thought.

He never did call the chemist.


	3. Chapter 3

Present Day  
Hong Kong

 

There’s no answer to Eames’ rapping at the door. He’s pushing aside the possibility that Arthur didn’t make it all the way here, that perhaps he collapsed in the street, was found by… It doesn’t bear thinking of. Before he goes tearing through Hong Kong’s alleys looking for a slim, dark-haired man in a sea of slim, dark-haired men, he should verify the room is actually empty. He takes a slow, deep breath.

He’s got to get in. Conning his way in via the front desk or a maid will take too long and he’s not sure he has the equanimity at the moment to fool anyone, so he takes out the not-strictly-legal tool he picked up at a street market in Shanghai. He’s pushing the door open inside of 30 seconds. 

To his vast relief, Arthur is in the room. On the bed, more specifically. The ache of tension in his chest eases for a moment, until he registers that his colleague is sweating and moaning under only a sheet, seemingly unconscious, his eyes tightly shut. Arthur is writhing in the grip of a fever, or something worse. 

Eames goes to his side and whips the sheet off of him, intending to, what? Get a better grasp of the situation, he supposes, take him for a ice bath if necessary. But he’s momentarily stunned by what’s revealed underneath. The long, slender lines of Arthur’s naked body are a sight to behold in any condition. 

But that’s not the least of it.

One of Arthur’s hands is around his cock, frantically jerking himself off while the other shoves a dildo into his arse. Eames sucks in a deep, shocked breath, and Arthur’s eyes flutter open, liquid and dazed. The air around him is thick, heady with some scent Eames almost doesn’t recognize, but suddenly every fibre of his being seems to orient to it, like iron filings to a magnet. The room goes blurry around him as his entire focus narrows down to _Arthur_.

The next thing he knows, Eames is buried inside him. His hands are braced on the headboard above Arthur’s glowing face, which is slack with ecstasy, his body pliant with surrender. 

It goes on for hours, through orgasm after orgasm. Eames’ conscious mind is afloat, completely on holiday—his id holds the reins, his body doing what it does best, fucking in and out of Arthur’s wet little hole, never loosening, holding him tightly, greedily, insistently. 

Their panting breaths, their urgent groans fill the room like a symphony of carnality. Time and space dissolve as the world narrows down to Arthur’s skin, Arthur’s taste, Arthur’s eyes, Arthur’s mouth consuming his. His body vibrates with powerful need; giving into it is no more voluntary than submitting to an ocean wave. It just comes, and it takes you with it. 

Eames pulls away after he’s come again--the third time? Fourth? He doesn’t know, he’s in a fever dream. Surely this is just a dream. He would check his chip but it’s not on him, Arthur’s on him, Arthur’s tongue in his mouth as he climbs on his lap and settles once more on his cock and they’re off to the races again, Eames levering up into Arthur’s body, bliss drowning everything else out.

They’re covered in slick sweat, pools of come on the bed, bodies sticky and sore and still unsated. Arthur arches against him, a needy sound escaping his red, swollen lips. Eames slides in once more, crying out with how good it feels to be inside this man, to make him shudder and moan and come. 

He gradually becomes aware that he’s awake, after an interval of unconsciousness more like a coma than sleep. Arthur is draped over him, an arm slung over Eames’ torso, a leg over his thighs. He can feel the stickiness of their skin even without moving; every slight shift pulls at patches of dried fluids. Eames opens his eyes slowly to a room in near total darkness. He starts to speak but realizes his mouth is completely dry, like he’s been lost in the desert for days. Conscious thought hovers around the edges of awareness but no clear ideas make it past the immediate need for water.

He shifts against the dead weight of his… colleague? Lover? His brain tries to parse the last few hours, how it all started, but nothing makes sense. Sitting up as slowly as possible, Eames slides out from under Arthur, noting how warm he is, how utterly surrendered to sleep. He stumbles to the loo, turns on the tap and gathers water in his hands, gulps it again, and again. Thoughts trickle through his head like the water through his body. He flicks on the light and barely recognizes the man in front of him. He’s covered in lovebites, his hair literally stands on end, his eyes smudged with purple underneath. He looks like he’s been through a battle, and one that he lost. He smiles at himself. 

Arthur, he thinks. Arthur did this. 

Eames grabs a glass and fills it, takes one last look at himself in the mirror then switches off the light. He puts the glass on the nightstand before returning to the bed. Instantly, Arthur rolls over to smother him again, so hot that there’s no need for sheets, much less anything else. Eames tends to run warm anyway. 

After a long, drifting moment, during which Eames forces his mind to go blank, to enjoy this silence and closeness, Arthur stirs. Eames helps him drink some water, knowing how badly he’ll be needing it. Arthur downs the whole glass, rasps “More.” 

He gets up, fetches more water. Arthur drinks it noisily and fumbles the glass back to Eames when he’s done. Then he flops down and Eames lays down with him, listening to all the tiny sounds Arthur makes as his brain comes back online from an epic fuck. 

“What d… what time is it?” Arthur finally asks, though Eames is certain he was about to ask something else. Eames reaches down beside the bed for his cell; it was in his trouser pocket when he… when he ended up naked and thrusting into Arthur without having made the clear decision to do so. The cold brick comes to his hand and he thumbs it on, except it stays dark. He grunts his confusion. “Phone’s dead,” he murmurs.

“I should have asked what day it is,” Arthur says, an odd, defeated tone in his voice. “Turn on the tv.”

The remote is in the drawer of the nightstand. The tv start screen helpfully informs Eames that, holy fuck, it’s 5 am of the next day. He’d gone to Arthur’s hotel room in the morning… how long had they fucked for? He turns to Arthur, whose eyes are closed again, but it’s clear from the tension in his face that he’s awake.

“It’s almost dawn,” Eames says. Arthur nods. This information doesn’t phase him. “When did we fall asleep?” His last clear memory, of pumping Arthur full of come—come, after countless orgasms, there had still been come—and watching his lovely face contort with pleasure in the dying glow of the sunset. “Were we fucking for…?” He can’t bring himself to ask if they had actually fucked for nearly twelve hours. It’s ludicrous. Absurd. 

“We fucked for hours, yeah. We fucked ourselves into a coma. Did you have a good time, or not?”

Eames doesn’t answer in words; the sound of Arthur saying, in his rough, low voice, _we fucked ourselves into a coma,_ is perhaps the most erotic thing he’s ever heard. His cock is hard and he puts Arthur’s hand on it. 

“Want to do it again?” he says, all rational thought fleeing with the feel of those fingers circling his erection.

Arthur’s on him before the words have made it past his lips.


	4. Chapter 4

Sept 2016  
Milan

Arthur regarded his reflection sourly. Milan grated on him. Something about being at ground zero of the fashion world made him doubt himself and his tastes, which were reliably fawned over in less cosmopolitan surroundings. He straightened his tie one last time, feeling certain that it was either too wide or too slender, then shrugged and went to meet Dom.

They were rendezvousing with the forger again. Eames. Arthur had done enough recon on the Brno job to justify another meeting, this time to test whether Eames’ forge was on the right track and to get a few other details ironed out. The job was a big one and they weren’t taking any chances. 

Dom and Arthur arrived at Palazzo Stelline with half an hour to spare. A conference room had been sorted out for them, which was good because Arthur needed to present some research and he didn’t want to suffer Eames looking over his shoulder at his laptop screen, or worse yet, to hand his computer over to the man. 

“Ah, you’ve arrived,” Eames said as he sauntered into the room. A young man with a silver salver trailed after him, making him seem like some kind of dignitary with a retinue despite the hideousness of his attire. _Vintage_ , Arthur sneered to himself, ignoring how well the jacket fit across those shoulders. 

The server set the tray on the table, containing cups, a cafetiere and a variety of small confections. Eames reached over the young man’s shoulder in a shocking display of familiarity and nabbed one of the confits, winking at him as he left the room with a pleased blush on his cheeks. “Grazi, Giulio,” he said in perfectly accented Italian. 

“Are you finished?” Arthur found himself snapping. “We didn’t come here for snacks.” 

“Oh, but I did,” Eames said with a wry smile as he seated himself. “They’re quite good, too,” he added, popping the thing in his mouth and chewing with a challenging look on his face. It was obvious he wasn’t talking about the confit. At least, it was obvious to Arthur, who felt hot with irritation. Dom simply leaned over and stacked half the cookies on a plate, which he placed between himself and Arthur, then helped himself to coffee. The coffee smelled exquisite, so Arthur reached to pour some, only to have his hands batted out of the way by Eames. 

“Allow me, you’re the guests,” he said as he poured a cup for Arthur, ignoring the fact that Dom had just served himself. Arthur’s lips thinned and he nodded stiffly, picking up the cup with a distinct lack of graciousness. Something about Eames got directly under his skin. He needed to dial back his animosity if he didn’t want to sabotage this new association. 

“Thanks,” Arthur said, and it almost sounded sincere. He got the laptop hooked up to the projector and ran through the mark’s schedule and known haunts and alliances. He was in the middle of an explanation of how several of his social circles intersected when Eames cleared his throat. 

“Yes, Mr. Eames?” Arthur said, as mildly as possible. He hated being interrupted. 

“This is all information you sent via encrypted mail last week.”

“I didn’t know if you’d actually reviewed it, as I got no reply.” A raised eyebrow should shut him up. 

Eames stared at him, a fleeting frown replaced by insouciance. “I always read your emails, darling,” he said with a smirk, splaying himself in his chair like a dissipated monarch. 

“Fine.” Arthur skipped to the end of the outline, covering only materials he’d learned in the week since, then packed up without checking if Eames had any questions. “Shall we go to your room?”

Eames’ eyebrows climbed up his forehead as he clearly contemplated making some stupid remark. “To check on your forge,” Arthur continued, pretending not to notice. 

“It’s not complete,” Eames said. “I would hate to show you inferior work product.” 

Dom and Arthur exchanged a look. This was exactly why they’d come, and exactly why they hadn’t warned Eames they wanted a preview. “I’m afraid it’s non-negotiable, Eames,” Dom said smoothly, without inflection. “We have time to find someone else if we’re not satisfied.”

“You’ll be satisfied,” Eames said. It spoke to his irritability that there wasn’t a hint of innuendo in it. He didn’t look entirely convinced of his own words and Arthur experienced an odd frisson of fear. What if it wasn’t up to snuff? What if they had to find someone else? He pushed the unpleasant thoughts aside as they filed out of the room and up to Eames’ suite.

The suite provided ample room for them to lie down, two queen beds nearly side by side. After Arthur opened the PASIV case and loaded the somnacin, there was a brief, wordless jostling for places which somehow resulted in him lying next to Eames on one bed, while Dom reclined on the other. 

Arthur handed Eames a line to insert and focused on his own, ignoring the smell of Eames’ aftershave. Or whatever it was that smelled so fucking good. The last time he’d become obsessed with a lover’s scent, it had turned out to be the brand of detergent he’d used. Arthur shut down that line of thought as he pressed the plunger. Eames wasn’t his lover. Eames wasn’t anybody.

The dreamscape was blurry, barely sketched out. It could have been a cafe at any one of hundreds of courtyards in Italy. Dom and Arthur sat at table, drinking a Lambrusco that Arthur didn’t remember ordering, when up walked an oddly compelling middle-aged woman in slightly outdated couture and sensible yet stylish heels. She seated herself in the empty chair and Arthur had to catch his breath at the subtle way her eyelids fluttered as she searched her purse for a pack of cigarettes. She was exquisite. 

Eames was phenomenal. 

She spoke in heavily accented English and Arthur interrupted in Czech to say, “It’s alright. You can speak the mother tongue with me.” Her eyes widened and she smiled, delighted, as she lit her long cigarette and inhaled deeply. 

“You’re not like most Americans,” she said, and her accent was nearly perfect, though her phrasing was off. “I’m impressed.” 

Arthur fought the pride that welled within him. He hated that he had any desire to prove himself to this man. 

“What can you tell me about your former husband?” he asked. Her head tilted, gaze growing cloudy and distant. Such a simple change told the whole story of their ugly divorce and the allegations that came out as a result of it. Incredible skill; Arthur knew now to never trust a thing that Eames said or did, if he was capable of this kind of performance. He could sell you the heart of your own mother and convince you it was a kindness. 

“He is not a saint,” she said, searching carefully for the right words, as she was known to do. Her hand trembled faintly as she brought the cigarette to her lips again, the smoke spilling out cinematically. “But he would never have been capable of the things those awful people are saying.” She flicked ash and closed her eyes on tears about to fall. 

Dom nodded and said, “Excellent work. I think we’ve seen enough.”

“A moment,” Arthur interrupted, raising his hand. “I have some notes.” 

Eames-as-Paulina made a wry moue then shifted back into his own body, still holding the cigarette. He took a pull and blew the smoke just past Arthur’s face. A slight mist began to fall. 

“I’ll see you topside,” Dom said, withdrawing a small handgun from his jacket. “I’m afraid I should have used the, uh, the facilities before we went under. Arthur, go easy on him. He did tell us it wasn’t complete.” He left, the sound a gunshot following close behind.

“So. You had notes?” Eames said, spreading his legs wide and dropping the cigarette on the ground. 

“The accent isn’t quite right. She was raised without money, had to learn proper speech as a young woman. Also, you need to work on your Czech grammar.”

“Anything else?” Eames was looking at Arthur with open curiosity. “Was she pretty enough for you?” 

“Not my type,” Arthur replied, though reluctant to confirm what Eames was really asking. For a long moment their eyes met, and Arthur felt a question form on his lips. _Were you staying a hostel on Amsterdam Avenue on Christmas eve, thirteen years ago?_

Eames took a sip of Dom’s abandoned wine then leaned forward, his gaze traveling over Arthur speculatively. “What about this?” he asked in a low, confidential voice. “Is this more to your liking?”

Arthur stood up. “Let’s keep it professional, Mr. Eames,” he said, keeping his face as impassive as possible. 

The dream dissolved as the timer ran out, and he found himself back in his real body, on the bed, his dick hard in his pants. He quickly turned to his side, away from Eames, and disengaged the line from his wrist. Dom wasn’t in the room; he must still be in the en suite. Thank god. Before he could stand up, Eames’ hand traveled over his hip, light but somehow possessive, and it set his whole body on fire. 

Arthur practically fell off the bed to get away from him. “I said keep it in your pants,” he barked, facing away from Eames. He felt strongly that something very… bad would happen, something irrevocable somehow, if he turned to see Eames in a similar condition. “I don’t fuck colleagues.” 

“Understood,” came the reply. “My apologies. I’m used to a, well… a lesser calibre of colleague. You’re right. We have a lot of work to do, we should focus on that.”

Arthur didn’t deem this worth a response. It should have been self-evident. He went slack with relief when Dom emerged from the bathroom, finally. 

They said their farewells; Dom warm and friendly, Arthur feigning neutrality badly. 

Back in their own hotel room, across the city, Arthur flung himself on the bed and started tearing at his clothes, heedless of whether Dom was in the room (he was) or whether he was damaging the material (he was). He was hot. Too hot. He’d never been this hot.

Wait. He’d been… shit, this was the fever again. This was… oh no. Oh no oh no oh no. Not again. Not _now_.

“Arthur?” Dom asked, his voice rising in concern. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”

“I… I can’t…” he said, his words slurred. There wasn’t any reason for this, he hadn’t had anything to drink. It was the middle of the day. 

The mix. It had to be the mix, his brain supplied. The fucking chemist. Shit.

“Are you going to be sick?” Dom asked, his voice low and paternal. Arthur shook his head violently. 

“I need.” He stopped. He’d been about to say something horrific. “I…” He couldn’t stop his mouth, it had to come out. “I have to -- Dom, _please._ ”

“Please what? What do you need?” Dom was closer now, and Arthur could feel his body, the bulk of it, the height and weight. It wasn’t quite right, but it would do. It loomed over him, uselessly distant even though inches away. He needed it closer. He needed it inside him.

“Fuck me,” Arthur breathed, then rolled over and writhed in the sheets, desperate, melting. 

Some unknown interval later, Arthur came to with a cock in his ass, blessed relief thrumming in his veins.


	5. Chapter 5

Present day  
Hong Kong

 

Eames feels almost swamped with urgency to be inside Arthur, and it looks like Cobb’s about to leave with Mehta. Excellent. His body is more than ready for another round. Waiting for the other team members to get the hell out of the office is agonizing.

They’ve fallen into a routine of sorts in the two days since Eames’ visit to Arthur’s hotel. He’s hungry for Arthur all the time, but for the sake of plausible deniability he keeps his distance until he notices Arthur giving him a look. A look which is quickly training his cock like Pavlov’s bell. It happens every few hours, and Cobb and Mehta appear to be accommodating them without a word needing to be spoken. Eames thinks that probably the stench of sex on them is so strong, no explanation is necessary. 

Not to mention the bruises and bites peeking from under their collars. 

The door is just snicking to a close, leaving them alone in the vast grey-carpeted room. Arthur doesn’t look up from where he’s standing at his desk, but he leans over to a drawer and pulls out a small, dark bottle and Eames’ cock jerks in his trousers. He ambles over, presses himself between Arthur’s cheeks and grinds. 

“Shall we?” he murmurs in his ear, then sucks on his lobe until Arthur’s whining and practically humping the desk. Propriety demands that they move to the loo but Eames doesn’t want to. And Arthur clearly couldn’t care less, judging by the way he’s pushing back on Eames. He turns Arthur around and mauls him with his lips and teeth; sucking on his mouth, his neck, inhaling his scent. Arthur arches against him as his hands slide down the back of his trousers until he can squeeze and grasp those cheeks, feeling their smooth, springy heft under his fingers. He’s still slick from their last round, earlier that morning in the storage room, Arthur biting the heel of Eames’ hand to keep himself quiet.

The fog of their first time has lifted, thankfully, and Eames doesn’t miss any of the details of their encounters now. His lust is just as forceful, compelling, but it leaves his hands steady enough to undo Arthur’s trousers, push them down and out of harm’s way. He palms Arthur’s cock but Arthur moves his hand away, turning back around and lowering his torso to brace against the surface of the ancient metal desk. 

Eames grunts at the sight of Arthur spread out for him. He sinks to his knees and buries his face in Arthur’s arse, holding him open with his hands, working him open with his tongue. Arthur growls and shoves back on him, making a frustrated sound. Eames slips both thumbs in, side by side, stretching a little. Arthur’s still a bit loose from a few hours ago, slick with the oil-based stuff he prefers. He can’t stand it any more; normally he’d take his time, teasing Arthur until he screamed, but Arthur’s already so worked up. So is he. It’s supernatural, how hot they get for each other, how fast it all happens. How good it is.

He stands and drops his trousers one-handed, the other clenching in the firm flesh of Arthur’s right cheek. “Fuck me, please,” he says, voice guttural, pleading. “Fuck, I need you. _Eames._ ”

He slides in on one thrust, Arthur’s half-prepared hole only accommodating him halfway. But Arthur groans as though he’s received manna from heaven, clenching down and undulating with total abandon. He writhes and twists, taking in more of Eames with each little shimmy, panting. Eames runs a rough hand down his spine, then back up under his shirt and around to pinch a pebbled nipple. Arthur rears upwards at the touch, gasping and sinking the rest of the way down onto Eames’ cock.

After that things are a delicious blur, each of their bodies driving the other closer to the edge with grinding, heaving thrusts. Arthur has one knee propped on the desk, his back pressed to Eames chest and his cock bobbing untouched, their cries and the slapping of their flesh loud in the otherwise silent room, when the door opens.

Eames' attention is fully engaged with Arthur’s hole, fucking in and out with single-minded determination, but his ears still work. 

“Get a room,” one of them says, quiet but disgusted. Eames pulls his gaze away from the sweat-soaked curls on Arthur’s nape and sees Cobb standing there with his mouth hanging open. It must have been Mehta with the cliched complaint.

“We have one,” he growls, hips pistoning into Arthur, Arthur so gone on Eames cock that he doesn’t stop his incessant, panting moans.

The door closes again. Eames doesn’t even care about the look on Cobb’s face. 

***

Two days after they'd been caught by their teammates, two days so soaked in come and sweat that Eames can’t remember what happened in the increasing intervals between their marathon bouts of fucking, Arthur has cooled off.

It’s now been nearly eight hours since they fucked and Arthur still hasn’t given him the look. Or any looks, actually. He’s been buried in his infernal laptop and Eames is starting to find that his own brain is working again. 

Unfortunately. Because the things it’s telling him are things he doesn’t really want to hear. Things such as, “you’re out of his system.” Things such as, “This will never happen again.”

Things such as, “What the fuck _was_ that? 

He goes over to Arthur at 10pm, having filled two plastic cups with the Aberfeldy he'd picked up at the DFS in the Galleria. Arthur shivers as he gets near, and Eames smiles, his whole body melting in relief. 

"Missed me, darling?" he murmurs into the curly hairs behind Arthur's ear. Arthur surges up out his seat, knocking one of the cups of whiskey out of Eames' hand as he turns to cling to Eames' shoulders. "Yes," he hisses, placing Eames' now-free hand on his crotch. He's so wet with precome it makes Eames' knees buckle with want. "Take me to my room, now. We're going to need a bed for this." 

Eames downs the remaining shot in one swallow and picks up Arthur in the fireman carry. They can make it to love hotel around the corner if they hurry. Otherwise, all of Wan Chai is going to see Eames giving it to Arthur, no holds-barred, for about three hours straight.

***

The job goes off a few days after that, and Arthur hasn’t so much as touched him since Friday night. He woke up at dawn, Arthur already gone from the room. Since then, it's been radio silence.

Eames admits to himself that he’s been overwhelmed by Arthur’s sex drive (not to mention a little impressed with his own performance. He’s had dirty weekends before, of course, but nothing like this.) He knows he's been a little lulled by the massive quantities of fucking, a little lax with his usual powers of analysis and perception. Even so, a dawning horror of the scope of his inattention to detail is spreading a new light on the last 96 hours or so.

It occurs to him now, as it should have days ago, that things have been moving far too fast. Because the thing is, it hasn’t just been fucking. When they weren’t in a stall, or a storage room, or over a desk, when they were in a bed after fucking each other blind and dry, they’d talked. Whispering to each other in the interstices of the madness. Sharing details of their lives that Eames hadn't dared dream he might be privy to, hadn't dreamt Arthur would want to know. Arthur had told him things he'd said he hadn't told anyone else, ever. 

And that, more than anything, should have raised his alarms. Because Arthur clearly is not the type for… he would normally call it pillow talk, but that cheapens it to the point of nausea. Call it intimacy, then. Arthur is not the kind of person to open up after a few days, no matter how ineffable the sex is. No matter how drawn Eames has been to him since the very first time he saw him, like something from a dream half-remembered; Arthur hasn’t ever shown the first sign that he’s felt the same pull. 

So it’s the fact that this has all happened with _Arthur_ that has obscured the fact that it’s odd. Beyond odd. Forget about the light of dawn, as unwelcome as it was. Now cold certainty falls over him like a shadow. He’s been taken for a ride that he doesn’t even comprehend the nature of. 

He mulls it over, and over. He picks up his phone, puts it down, picks it up again. Tells himself he got off easy--no lectures, no recriminations, no tears. 

But also, no explanations.

A month later, he can’t help himself. He texts Arthur. _what was that?_

He gets no reply. 

A month after that, the strange aspects of it have faded away and all Eames is left with is a bone-deep longing that doesn’t look to be dissipating any time soon.


	6. Chapter 6

December 2016  
Brno

 

Arthur had been dreading the Brno job for months by the time December finally rolled around. When Julek had first contacted him about the missing Czechoslovakian diplomat, he’d been eager to get Cobb to sign off on it. The difficulty of locating a politically connected man with nearly no intimate connections, who had clearly disappeared of his own accord, provided an irresistible challenge. They didn’t usually get so much lead time, nearly 9 months from hire to execution. But it had taken three months just to discover which person in his life might be most likely to know where on the planet Lubomir Koza had hidden himself away. Arthur credited himself with that, and with getting so much of the preparatory work completed before their journey to the Czech Republic. 

Thanks to his foresight and work ethic, the team wouldn’t need to be on the ground for longer than two weeks. Arthur had another motivation for limiting the team’s stay in Brno, but he figured he was doing everyone a favor by minimizing the amount of time that he and Eames need to be in the same environment. Too much time with Eames would inevitably lead to unpleasantness, potentially the kind that affected the success of a job. 

Their last encounter had shaken him deeply, for reasons that he refused to dwell on. They lurk in the back of his mind nevertheless, and in the past few months, he’s woken to the vestiges of dreams that are redolent of the man’s scent. The entire job would benefit by him staying out of Eames’ way, and vice versa.

Luckily, the only candidate for finding Koza, his old business partner Karel Moravec, presented enough of a logistical problem that the team would be hard pressed to reach him within their window. Arthur arrived two days before the rest of them and set up the HQ to eliminate any chances of distraction. He needed everyone focused like a laser on making the job go off. 

Eames, once he arrived, seemed like a different person than the man Arthur had seen in Macau and Milan. He was paler, thinner, moved through the space without seeming to displace the air around him. Arthur stood to shake his hand, feeling relieved. 

“Eames, good to see you,” he said, and forced himself to smile as their hands made contact, only to abruptly pull back when he felt heat creep up his arm despite the relative coolness of Eames’ palm. 

Eames didn’t acknowledge the awkward move. “Likewise,” he said, looking at Arthur as if the scene in the dream had never happened. As if he’d never touched him, much less propositioned him. “Just put me to work, my liege.” He made a self-deprecating bow. 

Arthur blinked at him, “I--of course. You’re over by the window, with Sergei. I’ve supplied a laptop, burner phone, key card for the hotel. We’re breaking for dinner in about an hour. If you need anything else, let me know.” 

“Cheers,” Eames returned, not showing a hint of awareness of the opening Arthur had thrown him. 

Arthur watched him amble across the room, watched him meet Sergei, watched him adjust his office chair and tilt it back to stretch. He felt the slightest bit let down and that was stupid. 

Arthur opened his laptop and scrolled through his neverending list of to-dos, scrambling to complete just a few more before the dinner break, which Cobb had begun enforcing for “team cohesion.” But his attention was drawn by the sound of laughter across the room.

Sergei and Eames were hitting it off. Arthur couldn’t help noticing how relaxed Eames already seemed, chatting up a new colleague, posture speaking of openness and bonhomie. He sat there staring for a moment, trying to reconcile this version of Eames with what he’d expected.

 

***

After a few days, it appeared that the problem on this job was not going to be keeping Eames away from him, but keeping himself away from Eames. 

Eames, despite all appearances, was a man of his word. He’d said he understood Arthur’s boundary, he’d apologized for his forwardness--and apparently, he’d meant it. Nothing in his demeanor suggested any kind of interest in Arthur’s assets, other than the purely professional. 

Arthur, however, found himself taking the seat closest to him at the team dinners if he didn’t force himself to take one further away. Several times he’d been caught staring at Eames’ profile or the strong lines of his back when Eames had felt the heat of his gaze and looked over, mild inquiry written on his handsome face. 

The first time, Arthur had flushed and looked away guiltily. The next few times, he’d simply frowned slightly and let his gaze casually move across the room, as though he’d been doing nothing more than clocking the team’s productivity. He was horrified at his own lack of control. He was even more horrified that he’d expected Eames to call him on it, maybe mock him for it, and that he was annoyed when that didn’t happen.

But it wasn’t until Sergei mentioned that Arthur had been breathing down Eames’ neck about the forge that he realized he was in danger of breaking his own rule. Arthur put the brakes on hard. He left Eames to develop the secondary forge as he saw fit, removing himself from the practice sessions entirely. As far as possible, he avoided any situations in which he might have to speak to him or look at him. 

But the night that the team was celebrating a major breakthrough, having finally found an opening in Moravec’s defenses wide enough to run the job, Arthur let Sergei goad him into drinking far too much Slivovice. By the time he registered that he’d followed Eames to the toilets, he was nearly too drunk to stand. 

When he tried to sidle up next to Eames at the sinks, he misjudged his footing and stumbled, nearly knocking over the waste bin. Eames’ arms were suddenly around him, steadying him. Arthur grabbed at his shoulders as he was pulled upright then found himself staring at that mouth, unable to hear the words it was forming. 

The world narrowed down to those ineffably lush lips, and his own lips were making their slow, inexorable way towards them. Before he could make an ass of himself, though, Eames was turning him around and helping him out of the restaurant, into a cab back to the hotel. Alone. 

Two hours after his alarm went off the next morning, he still lay curled in his bed, his head a muddled fog of humiliation and his body wracked with unwilling, unaccountable arousal. It wasn’t until he saw Eames’ face, though, smiling as he and the chemist traded anecdotes of past jobs, that the memory of his dream slammed into his conscious mind.

_Two young men; one wiry and dark, barely out of boyhood, the other thicker, more worldly, lips and voice a lush invitation to a world of pleasure and tenderness. Two young men grasping at each other, devouring everything their mouths can reach, then laying still, replete and exhausted._

Two young men. Him. Eames.

No, it couldn’t be. Arthur stalked out of the office, out of the foyer, onto the street to catch his breath. That was absurd. The dream was… he’d spent his first holidays away from home at a hostel in New York, he’d had sex with a man for the first time, but it hadn’t been Eames. Impossible.

He hardly spoke to Eames for the remainder of the job, and when it was over, he wasn’t at all surprised to find his body collapsing into the same state it’d been returning to every three or four months. He was just damned grateful it had waited until he was nowhere near Eames.


End file.
